


It's Memories That I'm Stealing

by Draycevixen



Series: POI fic by Draycevixen [31]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Timelines, Amnesia, Angst, Denial of Feelings, Divergent Timelines, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-30
Updated: 2014-04-30
Packaged: 2018-01-21 10:47:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1547894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Draycevixen/pseuds/Draycevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the best efforts of Team Machine, Reese is not doing well without Finch.</p><p>Written for the 2014 Small Fandom Bang on livejournal, I started writing this story several months ago. </p><p>  <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1546004">Blythechild's lovely fan art created for this work</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John hit rock bottom when Shaw showed up at his loft to take him out to breakfast. Shaw knowing where he lived was bad enough, but her choice of diner made it that much worse, their Eggs Benedict a crime.

 _Without a perfect hollandaise sauce it’s just a waste of good eggs and ham, Mr. Reese_. 

His breakfast congealed while Shaw shoveled down the Hungry Man’s Platter, grunting between mouthfuls about baseball, Bear being a couch hog and the best way to kill a man with a fork. 

“The manual says vital organs but what if the target turns at the last moment? I favor the throat.”

She must have read the flyleaf of a book on the art of conversation. 

“What are you doing here, Shaw?” 

She sopped up the last of her eggs with some toast, wiped her mouth and fingers clean on her paper napkin and crossed her arms. “Fusco made me.” 

“Do what?” The thought of Fusco being able to make Shaw do anything amused him, despite himself.

“Keep an eye on you. He was worried you might eat your gun.” 

He shouldn't underestimate Fusco.

“Fusco’s an idiot.” Shaw drained her coffee mug. “And so are you. You should have listened to me on that rooftop. Sex is easy, it’s relationships that are fucked up.” 

She stood up and patted him brusquely on the shoulder in passing. “It wasn’t your fault, Reese.”

 

It was an unseasonably bright sunny day so he took Bear to the dog park. Bear retrieved the tossed ball a few times and sniffed at a few other dogs, but his heart obviously wasn’t in it and he soon returned to sit by John’s feet, leaning heavily in to his leg as John sunk his hand in to Bear’s ruff. 

Fusco sunk down on to the park bench next to them, his hands full of hotdog bags and a drink tray. Bear stared hopefully at the hotdogs, tail wagging, and was rewarded for his efforts as Fusco dropped two plain hotdogs in front of him.

“You should eat something too.” Fusco handed John a hot dog and a drink. 

John put the hot dog down on the bench beside him but drank the cold lemonade. 

“It wasn’t your fault, big guy.” 

His hand tightened on the drink. “I know.” 

“...We need you to talk to Root."

“I know.” 

“It’s hard, losing someone you love,” Fusco blurted out.

He turned slowly to look at Fusco, who was fidgeting in his seat and avoiding John's eyes. 

“Thanks for the food, Lionel.” 

John stood up, leaving the hot dog on the bench, Bear moving with him as he walked away. 

 

He’d been sat in the library, staring at the same page of _To Kill a Mocking Bird_ for hours, when Root finally showed up.

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“I know.”

“ _She_ says it wasn’t your fault and She’s never wrong.” Her smile always put his teeth on edge. “Accidents will happen even when you're a good guard dog.”

He considered breaking her neck. 

Root’s smile didn’t waver but she raised one eyebrow like she was reading his mind. “That’s not very nice, John, and here I was trying for empathy.” 

She came to perch on the arm of his chair. It took a lot of willpower not to lean away from her. 

“The thing is, we’ve been very patient but this whole _pining away for your lover_ drama is getting old fast and while you’re hardly consumptive you are losing muscle tone. At this rate you won't be of use to Her much longer.” Root cocked her head, listening to something. “To the Irrelevants, yes, not of much use to them.”

“Tell it to send me the numbers, Samantha.” John took pleasure in seeing Root flinch at the use of her given name. He closed his book. “I need to work.”

Root nodded and left.

All of them were right, it wasn’t his fault. Finch had died in a car accident, a simple run of the mill car accident. John should know, he'd checked everything himself in the hours after the crash.

Their new number had been an aerialist in a small circus playing Brooklyn for two weeks. Finch had been unusually excited about it. 

 

“I never would have had you down for a circus fan, Finch.”

“The smell of the greasepaint, the roar of the crowd? Hardly. It’s the thrill of seeing old friends.” 

“Friends?”

“The Fibonaccis are wonderful people. We'll go early tonight, so you can meet them before the show.”

“You’re coming with me?”

“Of course, Mr. Reese. It’s a very tightly knit community and unless you have an heretofore hidden circus skill — remember the knife throwers are supposed to miss — you’re not getting back behind the scenes without an introduction.”

 

Finch's choice of clothes, jeans, a thin blue sweater and a short black leather jacket had been surprisingly flattering on him. 

“Harry!” Finch had been swallowed up in the enthusiastic embraces of a flock of brightly clothed people. “It's so good to see you! You never call, you never write.” 

Gloria Fibonacci’s hand sliding down a little too casually to squeeze Finch’s ass had amused John but he hadn't been as amused when he'd noticed Frank Fibonacci do the same thing as he in turn embraced Finch. 

 

John was jealous of people who’d known Finch before he had, back when Finch was less guarded.

 

Finch’s ears had been pink when they'd finally released him. 

 

It hadn't been adorable to see Finch looking that way, no such word as "adorable" existing in an ex-CIA agent's vocabulary. 

 

As they had walked towards the trailer that served as the circus's office, Finch, still pink around the ears, had muttered “You know how theatrical types are, Mr. Reese.”

“Not as well as you obviously do, _Harry_." He hadn't intended to ask. "How do you know them anyway?”

Finch had turned to look at him, obviously struggling with his promise not to lie to John. 

"After I first left home… had to leave home, it was hard going. I was still a teenager, didn't know who I could trust. I ended up travelling with the circus for a year. They were good to me, took me in and didn’t ask any questions.”

“So what were you, Finch, an acrobat, a lion tamer, a clown?” John had smirked. “Might explain some of your fashion choices.”

“No lion tamers, the Fibonaccis never had animals in their circus other than a dog act.”

John had stared at him, waiting him out. 

“I was their accountant.”

John had laughed and Finch had grinned back at him. 

“Frank had just inherited the circus. He and Gloria were only a few years older than me and he didn’t have a clue how to handle the accounts. I straightened things out for them and they were grateful.”

John had immediately thought of how free the Fibonaccis had been with their hands. 

 

He still didn’t know why that had bothered him so much. 

 

The number had been a crime of passion. Renaldo, the strong man, was in love with Sonya the aerialist, but she favored Carl, the contortionist. John had caught Renaldo red-handed, rigging the trapeze to fail and kill Sonya. 

The hardest part had been physically stopping Renaldo which had involved maintaining a chokehold long enough for Renaldo to pass out. A bullet would have been faster and led to less bruising for John but he’d have never heard the last of it from Finch. 

After the cops had taken Renaldo away, Finch had wanted to talk about something but John had put him off, telling him he was spending the night with Marta, Carl's fellow contortionist. She'd hinted broadly at previously undreamed of delights.

 

He'd already forgotten said delights. He should have gone with Finch. The only thing he clearly remembered about that night was the phone call. He’d scrambled to find his phone, still in the pocket of his pants strewn halfway across Marta’s trailer floor, ready to complain to Finch about not even getting a whole night off. But it was Fusco on the phone. 

Finch had been driving back to Manhattan when he'd been involved in a head-on collision with a plumber’s van. The resulting fire had killed both drivers, hopefully instantaneously. 

John had looked in to it, his grief masquerading as anger, determined to find someone he could hold responsible for Finch's death but there simply wasn’t anyone. When interviewed by 'Detective Stills', the plumber’s wife had admitted her husband was exhausted from working back-to-back shifts and the police reports confirmed the plumber had crossed lanes, probably asleep at the wheel. 

He'd still clung desperately to the idea that Finch was alive, even if the explanation was a black ops one where Finch had been taken prisoner. It was a terrible scenario, but as long as Finch was still alive John could save him. That faint hope didn't survive the coroner's report. One of the two bodies retrieved, while burnt to a crisp, had surgical pins corresponding to Finch's and dental x-rays identifying him as one Harold Crow. It was Finch's body, no doubt about it. 

Yet, in the weeks since the accident, he hadn't strayed far from either the library or his apartment unless walking Bear, always careful to stick to their usual routes and their favorite parks just in case… someone might be looking for them. 

John had always assumed that he and Finch wouldn’t live to see old age but it had never occurred to him that one of them might die in a mundane traffic accident. 

Shaw, Fusco and even, god help him, Root treated him like he was grieving for a lover. Their assumptions might have amused him if he hadn't been grieving for his only real friend. He'd had plenty of lovers but Finch had been the only person who’d ever known everything about John and had still wanted to be his friend, and not just as a way to manipulate a useful asset. 

 

Bear got up from his dog bed and walked over to him, licking his hand, whimpering slightly. John buried his face in Bear's fur, breathing deeply, pulling himself together. 

 

Enough. He straightened up. There was no way in hell he was leaving Root alone with the Machine and leaving Shaw to watch over Root would be like the fox guarding the hen house. Even if nothing else was left he still had a job to do. 

 

Three days later, tied up and being slowly beaten to death by the number they'd mistakenly thought an innocent, John still didn't question his decision to go back to work. All he had to do was stay alive long enough to distract the number from his intended victim until Fusco could make it to her house. He wasn't overjoyed when Root shot the number square between the eyes before he could finish John off, but he wasn't going to examine that too closely. 

 

Eleven days later, he was on a rooftop watching Shaw through a rifle sight as she beat the shit out of Brent Wilson, a man who organized dog fights for a living, while questioning him about who might want their number dead. There were very few things Shaw took umbrage at — he heard 'umbrage' in Finch’s voice — but dog fighting was one of them. He didn't feel sorry for Wilson but did feel sorry for himself, having been benched by Shaw due to his injuries. 

She hit her ear bud. “Reese? It’s Jansen. Gambling debts.” She let Wilson go and as he slumped to the floor she kicked him in the ribs a couple of times for good measure. “Give up the dog fights or I’ll be back.”

As John climbed slowly down off the roof, still favoring his left side, he wondered if Wilson was smart enough to believe her. 

 

Twenty-three days later, Shaw punched John in the face and walked away as he fell on his ass. She was expressing her opinion about his stepping, unarmed, between the number and the number's shotgun wielding ex-husband. At least Shaw had shot the ex-husband before punching John. 

 

Thirty-two days later, found him hanging around the library. He'd arrived at 6:30am and apart from taking Bear out a couple of times he'd spent the rest of the day waiting to see if the Machine had another number for them. No luck. He'd already stuffed his book in to his coat pocket and put Bear on his leash ready to leave when he heard a phone ringing. John double-checked his pocket from force of habit even though he knew it wasn’t his, and then walked over near Finch’s desk where the ringtone was louder, tracking the sound to the bottom drawer of a filing cabinet. Inside was a cell phone that had stopped ringing just as he'd opened the drawer. He picked it up and stared at it, surprised when it beeped to signal a message had been left. He flipped it open to play back the message: 

“Hi, this is Harry Killdeer, from Killdeer Books, calling for Harold Wren. We found the first edition of _Casino Royale_ you were hoping we could find for your friend. Let us know if you want to pick it up or if you'd prefer us to deliver it to the usual address.”

John dropped the phone. It was Finch’s voice, he’d know it anywhere.


	2. Chapter 2

Killdeer Books was an unprepossessing looking place in Greenwich Village, jammed between a hipster sandwich bar and vintage clothing store. John had been standing across the road, staring at it, while the cup of coffee in his hand had grown cold. 

He couldn't be sure it wasn’t a trap – if he was caught he couldn’t help Finch – but it wasn’t the sort of set-up the CIA went in for and there was no reason for Finch to have played dead for three months, certainly not without reading John in on it. 

Once he crossed the road and confirmed that his hearing had just been playing tricks on him Finch would be irrevocably dead and the last remaining— he threw the cold cup of coffee in a trash bin and crossed the road. 

 

An old fashioned bell on the door rang as John entered the bookstore. The young woman with vivid pink hair who was sat behind the counter at the front of the bookstore didn't even look up from her open book as she said "Welcome to Killdeer Books, please feel free to browse. There's free coffee over by the back wall." 

He walked slowly to the back of the floor, looking around, but apart from two teenagers deep in conversation over a pile of books on a small table, he didn't see anyone else. 

The table against the back wall housed an assortment of clean pottery mugs and he selected one with 'Books! The best weapons in the world' printed on it. The coffee in the press pot was fresh and aromatic. 

There was a staircase to the second floor, with an arrow sign indicating, 'This way to more books.' John followed the arrow. 

Everywhere, the place overflowed with books, piled floor to ceiling, in places two or three deep on the shelves. There were small sitting areas scattered among the bookshelves, filled with old overstuffed armchairs set on faded area rugs. Along the way, he made the acquaintance of two large tabby cats presiding over everything but they barely woke up enough to acknowledge him. By rights, the bookstore should have felt claustrophobic but it didn't, even the smell of the place was comforting, old paper and leather bindings, reminiscent of the library. 

John was tempted to check behind the 'staff only' door on the first floor and the 'private' door on the second floor but they were locked and for the time being at least he resisted the urge to force them open. 

He finally made his way back to the front counter, hoping the young woman might prove useful. 

“May I help you?” She reluctantly closed the copy of _Madame Bovary_ she'd been reading, keeping her finger inside it to mark her place. 

“I hope so.” He smiled at her. “I was hoping to speak to Harry. He’s an old friend I haven’t seen in years and I thought I'd look him up.”

She smiled back, slipped her bookmark inside her book and straightened, smoothing down her black 'Keep Calm and Read Books' t-shirt over her jeans. “How lovely, what a shame he missed you. Perhaps I can take a message? I'm Sylvie, by the way, I run the place when Harry's not here.”

“Missed him?” He let his disappointment show. 

“He’s out of town on a buying trip. He went to Boston to pick up some first editions from an estate sale.” 

Probably not his Harold then… Finch, probably not Finch. Even if this bookstore were part of some elaborate ruse Finch wouldn’t be taking book buying trips out of town.

“Harry's due back later this afternoon." Sylvie handed him a flyer from the edge of the counter. “David Lockhart, Harry’s very good friend, is giving a reading here tonight. You should stop by.” 

There was something about the way Sylvie said “very good friend” that was unsettling. 

“Thanks, I’ll try to make it.” 

 

It was already 4:00pm and the reading was scheduled for 8:00pm. Bear was with Shaw and there was a coffee shop right across the street from the bookstore. He staked out a booth in the front window and started to turn his bloodstream into pure caffeine, pretending again to read his book. Normally, he’d have picked the booth all the way at the back of the coffee shop, but from the window he had a perfect view of the front of Killdeer Books. 

 

Around 7:30pm, small groups of people started entering the bookshop, obviously there for the reading. At 7:50pm he joined them, slipping in to the last unsaved seat on the back row of the chairs that had been set up in the open space on the second floor, the armchairs having been moved to accommodate them. Sylvie waved at him and he waved back. 

John stood up to allow an elderly lady to pass him to join her friend in the middle of the row. When he sat back down, Harold Finch was standing behind the podium at the front of the space. 

He fought to breathe around the impact of it, a solid blow to his chest, fought the urge to elbow his way through the crowd, to demand to know what the fuck was going on... Harold was _alive_.

Only the longer he sat there struggling for self-control, fists tightening against his thighs, the more he doubted his own eyes.

In the intervening months Finch’s hair had grown out and was now parted on the side, falling in to his eyes, making him look several years younger. Finch wasn’t wearing glasses, his eyes seemed enormous after having seen them mostly through Finch’s heavy glasses frames, and while he was still well groomed Finch's clothes no longer screamed 'my pocket square cost more than your entire wardrobe.' A simple pale blue shirt open at the neck worn under a fitted black vest, paired well with dark wash jeans and complemented Finch’s relaxed air. And Finch did look relaxed, a smile coming easily to his face while he welcomed everyone to the store and introduced David Lockhart. John hadn't seen Finch smile so much since he’d been high on Ecstasy. 

Finch had never been this good at undercover work. As to the voice, it made sense that someone who looked so much like Finch would sound like him too, given the physical structures that controlled voice. This could not be Harold Finch. He'd heard everyone had a doppelganger but had never given it any credence before. 

John had just about talked himself in to leaving quietly and returning to the library to investigate further when Killdeer turned to shake hands with Lockhart as he joined him at the podium. As Killdeer turned his whole body because he couldn’t fully rotate his neck and limped away from the podium. Finch, Killdeer was definitely Finch, but what the hell was going on?

He bided his time, stewing in his own juice, waiting for the reading to be over so he could confront Finch. He thought about calling Shaw and Fusco, earning several frowns from those sat around him as he got his phone out to stare at it, before deciding to wait. He had a few words of his own to exchange with Finch first. 

 

Lockhart was sitting at a table, signing books for a long line of people, when John finally managed to work his way through the crowd. Finch was standing at the counter with his back to John, talking to Sylvie as she rang up book sales. 

He tapped Finch on the shoulder. “Harry?” John was angry but he knew better than to blow someone’s cover. 

Finch turned to look at him, smiling blandly. “Sorry, do I know you?”

There wasn’t a trace of recognition on Finch’s face.

 

He wasn’t sure how he’d got back to his apartment from the bookstore. He’d mumbled something to Killdeer about knowing he was busy and that he’d come back in regular business hours and then he'd bolted. 

 

He seethed as he showered, he didn’t run away from anything, except when he did. 

Finch hadn’t recognized him, John was absolutely sure of that. Killdeer wasn’t a doppelganger. It was impossible and anyway the likelihood of one with Finch’s exact injuries was non-existent. 

Killdeer’s limp wasn’t as pronounced as Finch's and he appeared to be able to rotate his head a bit further so— no, it was impossible. Now he was reaching for straws. 

Killdeer's whole demeanor was more relaxed than Finch's ever was and tight muscles could explain the slight differences if Killdeer wasn’t as stressed. No one could be more stressed and uptight than Finch, who could have done with getting laid. 

Where had that come from? John was getting hard, his cock filling at the thought of Finch getting laid… No, it was thinking about getting laid, it had been a while, not since Marta. He took care of it, efficiently jerking off and then he went to bed. 

 

He woke up four hours later, covered in sweat and come. A wet dream… Deft fingers opening him up as he begged for more. _Finch’s fingers_. That would teach him to let his mind wander before bed. He’d fucked more than a few men over the years, stress relief with fellow soldiers, fuck buddies, one night stands when he'd wanted something rougher, or as part of an assignment, but his relationships, the few he'd had, had been with women. His subconscious was simply confused by the intensity of his partnership with Finch. 

He couldn’t get back to sleep. He got up, showered, dressed and made himself some bacon and eggs, actually hungry for the first time in weeks. He opened his laptop and looked up Killdeer Books, specializing in rare books and first editions, in operation since 2006. The website said they opened at 10:00am. 

 

At 9:00am, John was again in the window of the coffee shop, waiting for his first sighting of Killdeer. 

At 10:00am, the 'Closed' sign in the window of the bookstore’s door flipped to 'Open.' Killdeer must have come in from the back of the store. 

At 10:05am, John walked through the front door, having been delayed by heavy traffic on the street. 

Killdeer was unpacking books from a box on the counter and said “Good morning!” at the sound of the bell on the door ringing. 

Killdeer smiled at him when he turned around. “I’m glad you came back.” Killdeer put the books down and walked towards John. “Sylvie told me that you were an old friend who’d stopped by to say hello.” Killdeer stopped a few feet away. “I’m sorry that I didn’t recognize you.” He frowned. “I was in a car accident three months ago and I’m still having trouble remembering much before the accident, except for this place of course.” Killdeer gestured at the bookstore.

Not a cover story then. "I'm sorry, I didn't know about your accident."

“How do… This is rather awkward. How do we know each other?” 

“We went to school together. My name's John Reid.”

He put out his hand and Killdeer shook it but then started frowning again. Killdeer's memory might not be working right but there was nothing wrong with his math skills.

“Well, technically you went to high school with my older brother, Matthew, but you were always nice to me, didn’t care if I hung out with the two of you.” 

“You’re from Cedar Rapids then?” Killdeer was smiling again. 

“Yes, yes I am.” John smiled back, Killdeer's good humor infectious. “Do you have time to talk, I brought doughnuts.” He gestured with the tray in his hand. 

“If you don’t mind being interrupted if a customer comes in, Sylvie won’t be here until noon.”

When he nodded, Killdeer led him over to one of the seating areas, smiling again when he saw that John had brought him tea.

“How did you know?”

“It’s all you drank back then and I thought your tastes probably hadn’t changed.” 

Killdeer relaxed the rest of the way, so the tea had been a good gamble. It had seemed likely to John that things like a preference for tea didn't change with personas and it helped to support his claim that he’d known Killdeer before his accident. 

Finch always sat in a chair like it might attack him at any moment but Killdeer lounged as far as his injuries would allow. Killdeer was wearing jeans again with a white t-shirt, this time paired with a blue vest. Apparently a love of vests didn't change with personas either. John found himself staring at the 'v' of Killdeer’s t-shirt, a stray hair or two of chest hair visible. He wanted— to find out more about Killdeer’s accident. 

“I woke up in the back of a pick-up truck someone was using to move house. They found me when they went to unload. Near as they could tell at the hospital I’d been thrown there, probably as a result of a car accident, only the police couldn’t work out which accident so they thought it possible I might have dropped from a bridge. Luckily trash bags full of clothes broke my fall but I had a nasty head injury.” Killdeer turned, pushing against the lie of his hair to reveal a healed scar. 

There'd been a body in Finch's car as far as the police were concerned so his accident would have been ruled out as an option. “How did you find out that you’re you?”

“My driver’s license. I read the name, Harry Killdeer, and I recognized it immediately.” Killdeer frowned again. “It’s just everything before this place that’s giving me problems.”

“So how did you remember Cedar Rapids?” 

“Stuff in my apartment upstairs, I live above the bookstore, and things I'd told Sylvie. I used to talk a lot about my childhood and losing my parents when I was a teenager. I wish I could remember them.”

“I wish you could too, Harry. I was too young to know them well but they were good people."

Harry smiled at him and drank some more of his tea. “So what do you do, John?” 

“I work for a security company.”

“Security?”

“Seemed like an obvious choice after I got out of the army.”

“Sounds exciting, still, I’m happy with my books.”

And he could tell Harold meant it, he really was happy. “Look, I’m sorry, but I have to go. I’ve got an appointment to keep.”

“Oh, I was hoping we might talk some more about Cedar Rapids.”

John needed to make the break now. “I’ll try to stop back by sometime.” He was weak. 

 

Over the next week, John was oddly content when he thought about Harry Killdeer and his contented life. He'd talked to Finch a time or two about the path not taken and the steep odds against their having any sort of a future, yet a completely random accident had set one of them free. 

When John wasn’t content, he was warring with his less noble side that just wanted his friend and partner back. He could tell Shaw and Fusco about Finch, ask Dr. Tillman for the name of a good psychiatrist, work out ways to trigger Finch’s memory, to wake him up from Harry Killdeer’s life. He could ask Root to speak to the Machine.

He stopped dead in the alleyway he was using to get behind the house where a number was currently being held hostage. 

The Machine had to know. There was no one— nothing else that could have arranged for the body in the morgue, the one that had passed so convincingly for Finch. If the Machine could let Finch go then John would have to learn to do the same. 

He drew his gun and broke in through the house's backdoor. 

 

Working with Root wasn’t as bad as he’d thought it would be. She stayed out of his way, sending the numbers and their background information to the computers at the library. He'd wondered if she knew that Finch was still alive, if the Machine had told her, but decided she’d have never let Finch go. John thought about telling her and then drank until the impulse went away. 

 

John went past Killdeer books a couple of times, when he happened to be passing through the neighborhood. Of course that 'passing through' often involved an hour long detour but he never went in. Finch deserved Killdeer's life, a life that would make him happy, and there was too great a risk that with constant contact Finch might remember him. Or that John might have to withstand the crushing disappointment of Finch never remembering him. Either way, he stayed out of the bookstore. 

 

Their latest number had been rough and only Fusco’s arrival at the last moment had stopped John from being shot in the head. A few weeks before, he wouldn't have cared one way or the other. Now he was grateful that he was still alive in case Killdeer should ever need his help. 

He settled for buying Fusco a beer and Buffalo wings after Fusco tracked him down in O’Grady’s. 

The bartender set a shot of whisky in front of John and nodded to two women at the end of the bar who then waved at them. 

“How do you do it?” Fusco was shaking his head.

“Do what?”

“You’ve got a black eye and you're all banged up and fine looking women are still buying you drinks.” 

John shrugged, regretted the motion as sore muscles protested, and pushed the glass of whisky back untouched. “Not interested.” 

“How long’s it been since you—”

John turned to stare at him and Fusco shut up, but just for a minute. 

“I know you miss Glasses but you've got to go on.”

He'd had a couple of beers already and enough was enough. “You've all got it wrong, Lionel. We were friends.”

Fusco just stared at him. “You really believe that.” He got up and actually patted John on the shoulder. “Good for you.” 

 

How could Fusco be so wrong when Finch had never treated John as anything other than a trusted partner and friend? Never once— He was tired of thinking about it. Fusco was right, he needed to get laid.


	3. Chapter 3

John only went back to the Village the next day because there was no new number so it was a good time to check that all was still well at Killdeer Books. 

He was sitting across the road in the coffee shop, drinking his third cup of coffee, hoping to catch a glimpse of Killdeer when David Lockhart arrived, checking his hair in the bookstore’s window before entering the store. John was up and out of his chair before he had time to think about what he was doing. 

He did hesitate finally as he pushed open the door to the bookstore, rational thought having returned, reminding him of all the very good reasons he shouldn't be there. He was going to turn around and leave but Lockhart was sitting on the counter, leaning down towards Killdeer and John pushed harder on the door, causing the bell to jingle wildly. Lockhart leaned back again but only fractionally. 

Killdeer looked over towards the door and smiled broadly at him. “John! I was hoping to see you again." His face fell. “What on earth happened to you?” He came around the counter, coming to the doorway to lay his hand on John’s arm, guiding him to one of the armchairs at the back of the store, Lockhart ignored. 

“Harry?” Lockhart didn’t sound happy as he trailed along behind them. 

“Your poor eye.” Having made sure John was seated comfortably, Harry turned to head for the stairs. “Don’t go anywhere. I’m sure I have some Arnica upstairs."

Lockhart watched Killdeer leave and then turned back to John, thrusting out his hand. “David Lockhart, author.”

John held up his hands so Lockhart could see the bandages around his wrists. “John Reid, security.” 

“How do you know Harry?”

John just stared at Lockhart until he started shifting from foot to foot, probably not even aware how much his body language was giving away his unease. 

Killdeer returned with a standard home first aid box unlike the industrial sized one they kept at the library, fishing out a small bottle. “Here it is.” Killdeer perched on the coffee table in front of John, leaning in to gently pat Arnica around John’s black eye. 

It felt… different from all the other times Finch had tended to John's wounds. But then Killdeer looked worried and upset, Finch had only ever looked disappointed or angry. 

“Who did this to you, John?”

“Hazard of the trade, Harry. Bodyguard job got a little out of hand.” 

“So, Harry, how do you two know each other?” Lockhart’s face was an easy read and right now it was broadcasting to John 'you can’t put one over on me that easily.' 

Harry didn’t turn around to look at Lockhart, just kept dabbing carefully at John’s eye. “John's an old, dear friend. He recently moved to New York and decided to renew our acquaintance. I’m very glad he did.”

John wondered if he looked as stunned as Lockhart did. It wasn’t anything Killdeer had said so much as the way he said it. If John didn’t know better, even he would think they were lovers.

“… I’ll see you later, Harry.” Lockhart looked defeated. 

“Oh?” This time Harry turned to look at Lockhart. “Oh yes, see you later, David.”

Killdeer put the Arnica back in the first aid box as the bell on the door rang again, signaling Lockhart’s exit and then sat there staring at the box in his hands. 

“Harry?”

Killdeer slowly raised his eyes to look at him. “Sorry, John, I shouldn’t have done that.” He started to stand up but John reached towards him and he sat back down. “Lockhart’s not good at taking no for an answer but he’s a good business contact and I saw the chance to put him off without actually having to offend him. I really am sorry.” 

So Finch still didn’t remember him. Not that there was anything of that nature to remember. 

“It’s all right, glad I could help.”

At that, Killdeer’s floodgates opened. “It’s just that I have this lingering feeling that there was someone, before the accident, someone who meant everything to me. I just can’t shake that feeling. I know it’s ridiculous, if there’d been anyone like that in my life I’m sure they’d have shown up by now, but it still feels like I’d be cheating.”

 _Grace._ Of course some part of Killdeer that was still Finch would remember her. “It doesn’t sound ridiculous to me, Harry.”

The bell on the door rang again and Sylvie clattered in, dragging her bike and two bags with her. “Sorry I’m late.”

“No problem, Sylvie.” Killdeer stood up and looked down at him. “Would you like something to eat? I was just about to have lunch, just waiting for Sylvie to get here.”

He should leave. “I’d love to.”

Killdeer turned towards the back of the bookstore. “I have an apartment upstairs, if you think you can stand my cooking.”

He should leave and never come back. “I’ve survived worse, I’m sure.”

 

Behind the locked door marked 'private' on the second floor were stairs leading up to Killdeer's apartment which took up the whole of the top third floor. It was exactly what John would have imagined Killdeer’s apartment to look like if he’d ever had cause to imagine it, yet another great example of Finch’s attention to detail. There was a large open plan living room, dining and kitchen space. All the available wall space was lined floor to ceiling with bookshelves which even wrapped around the large windows at the front and two doorways at the back of the room. 

“Bathroom’s to the right” Killdeer said, as he moved towards the kitchen. 

That meant the door to the left must be Killdeer’s bedroom— It was always good to know the full layout of a place. 

While nothing in the room was particularly new it was clean, comfortable, warm and inviting. It wasn’t difficult to see how easily Finch would have taken to the notion that he was actually Harry Killdeer, the apartment making John consider if Finch was actually the alias and not Killdeer. 

“Take a seat” Killdeer gestured towards the welcoming old couch covered in worn green velvet, but instead he followed Killdeer over to the kitchen, taking one of the two seats at the small wooden kitchen table instead. 

Killdeer raised an inquisitive eyebrow at him. 

“You warned me about your cooking so I thought I better supervise.” The air was redolent with the rich smell of beef stew and John's mouth was already watering. 

Killdeer took a loaf of crusty bread out of a bag on the counter, put it on an old wooden cutting board along with a bone handled bread knife and put it on the table in front of John who quickly got the message, cutting a few generous slices. 

Killdeer got two earthenware bowls out of a cupboard and dished up the stew before joining John at the table. 

He had been eating for survival only for so long that he’d almost forgotten what real food tasted like. He ate three bowls of the stew and half the loaf of bread before finally, reluctantly, pushing his bowl away. 

Killdeer looked pleased as he took the empty bowls away and put them in the sink. 

“Do you have a dog, John?”

He straightened up in his chair. “Why do you ask?”

“Because there’s dog hair on your pants’ legs and because I thought you might like to take the beef bone home for your dog.”

“Thanks, Bear would like that.”

Killdeer slipped what was left of the loaf back in to the bread bag. “Unusual name for a dog.”

“Bear’s an unusual dog.”

 

That was it, that was the last time he’d ever see Harry— Killdeer. Nothing had changed and it was still the best call for everyone concerned, no question about it.


	4. Chapter 4

Bear was waiting for him at the library, Shaw having dropped Bear off an hour before. John offered the beef bone which Bear took and then dropped immediately, moving closer to sniff at John before sitting down and whining, his eyes huge and begging. John should have known Bear would recognize Finch’s scent on him and be distressed.

As far as Bear was concerned Finch had left him behind, you couldn’t explain to a dog someone had died. John had been feeling much the same way before he’d found out about Killdeer. He ruffled Bear’s fur. “All right, we'll go tomorrow, I suppose one more visit won’t hurt.”

 

He’d walked by the bookstore three times, carrying a tray and bag full of pastries from Finch’s favorite bakery, trying to talk himself in through the door. On his fourth pass, Killdeer stuck his head out of the door. 

“It’s all right.” 

“What?” 

“For you to bring Bear in with you. Matilda and Gerty like dogs.” 

John stood there and stared as Bear pulled against his leash, whining again. 

“My cats. They like dogs. Sylvie often brings her dog in to work with her.” 

Killdeer turned back in to the store and John had no choice but to follow him. 

“Let him off the leash.” 

John put the tray and bag on the counter and looked down at Bear, concerned he might knock Killdeer over in his enthusiasm. “He’s boisterous.”

“I’m sure he’s a marvelous fellow, aren’t you Bear?”

Bear’s tail beat frantically against the floor as he stared up at John, looking exactly like he was asking why John wanted to torture him so. He let Bear off the leash. 

Bear ran straight to Killdeer, stopping dead on a dime and pressing himself against Killdeer’s good leg, licking frantically at his hand. 

A rose by any other name would smell as sweet. Bear knew Finch, knew his limitations and John should have remembered that. 

Killdeer sat down in a chair, using both hands to pet and stroke Bear who turned over, offering his tummy to rub. 

If only it were that easy for everyone. Where the hell had that thought come from? 

“John.” 

“What?”

“Sorry, you were a million miles away. I asked what’s in the bag.”

“Pastries from your favorite— what I think will soon be your favorite bakery.”

 

They’d eaten the pastries, leaving a couple for Sylvie. and talked and talked and talked.

 

"Basketball? You love basketball?" The expression on Killdeer 's face was priceless.

"How can you not? You're from Iowa."

"Birth isn't destiny, John." Killdeer sipped his tea. "Now baseball, there's a game—"

"Granted it has its fine points but it's too slow." 

John has smiled and drank his coffee as Killdeer had unknowingly preached to the choir at great length on the merits of baseball. He didn't much care what Harry talked about as long as John got to sit there and listen to him. 

 

When Sylvie had got to work, they’d moved upstairs to Harry’s apartment where he'd made them chicken salad sandwiches for lunch and then they’d talked some more. John couldn’t remember ever having talked so much when not delirious.

 

"McPherson's a monster." Harry tapped on the newspaper lying on the kitchen table.

John read the headline upside down on an article about Kenneth McPherson's plans to renovate a run-down neighborhood in the Bronx. "The newspaper doesn't seem to think so."

"Sylvie has friends who live there and they say he has hired thugs putting pressure on families to move out of rent controlled apartments." Harry's voiced dropped in to that quiet range a decent man saves for when he's saying something indecent. "They say McPherson's bought off the local cops but I'm sure they couldn't be right."

 

He didn't realize how late it was getting, hadn't wanted to realize until he took Bear outside for a quick walk around the block. This had to absolutely be the last time he ever saw Harry, absolutely. 

He said goodbye to Sylvie, who was closing the store, and then he went slowly back upstairs, ready to say his goodbyes. "We should go out and get dinner." So it wasn't goodbye, but it would delay the inevitable for at least a few more hours. 

"We could" Harry answered him while bent over staring in to the depths of his fridge. John did not look at his ass, much. "Or we could put some music on and make some spaghetti." 

"We could." Even better. He wouldn't have to share his last few hours with Harry with anyone else. 

Harry started putting ingredients out on the kitchen counter, gesturing across the room with a pack of spaghetti. "My records are in the cabinet under the stereo."

"You still own vinyl?"

"Yes, I acquired it while dinosaurs roamed the Earth." Harry started opening cans of San Marzano tomatoes. "Really, John, you're not that much younger than me."

The first few albums John pulled out were all opera. Luckily his back was turned so Harry couldn't see his expression. The next few were more promising, the Mozart piano concertos in particular, but Harry didn't have to know that. 

"All long hair stuff. Don't you have any Boston or Chicago?"

"I prefer not to pick music via google maps. Try the right hand side, there's some jazz in there."

Now they were getting somewhere. "Where they can't play the right notes so they call it improvisation?"

There was a loud snort from the kitchen. "Just pick something and come and work for your supper."

John slipped Dave Brubeck's 'Take Five' on to the turntable and returned to the kitchen where he was amused by Harry's swaying slightly in time to the music as he worked on tearing up some basil. 

"I am yours to command."

Harry laughed, before reaching for another cutting board and pointing to a basket full of garlic and onions. "Chop some of those." 

John pulled another knife from the knife block and inspected its edge, much to Harry's obvious amusement. "Whetstone?"

"For garlic and onions?" 

"A craftsman never neglects his tools."

"Drawer in front of you." 

John carefully put an edge on his knife while Harry opened a bottle of wine. John inspected the knife carefully before deciding he was satisfied with its edge and putting it down, just in time to accept a glassful of wine from Harry. 

"May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead."

"I'll drink to that, Harry."

John made short work of the garlic and onions, reducing them to a fine dice in no time. 

"I said chop them not decimate them." 

But he could tell Harry was impressed by his knife skills. He leaned against the counter, sipping his wine, watching Harry start to put together a simple marinara sauce. 

"We can add some Italian sausage, if you'd like."

Bear came running in to the kitchen and sat, staring up at both of them. 

"I'd say that's one 'yes' vote." John patted Bear. "Make it two." 

Harry went back to the fridge.

 

They sat at the kitchen table to eat, passing the small bowl of parmesan John had grated and tearing hunks off the garlic bread he'd made. The spaghetti was great in that simple homemade way no restaurant could ever really rival. 

"This is really good, Harry. Where'd you learn to cook?" 

John covered his wince by reaching for his wineglass. It was a stupid question to ask an amnesiac. 

Luckily, Harry just grinned at the compliment. "The doctors told me that amnesiacs generally remember physical tasks no matter how damaged their memories are otherwise. All I know is that it must have been before the accident as I made myself dinner the first night home from the hospital." Harry drank some of his wine. "It's a good survival skill for a bachelor." 

He didn't like the frown on Harry's face, obviously 'bachelor' making him think yet again of his lost love, even if Harry still couldn't remember her name.

John touched the back of Harry's hand briefly as he refilled his wineglass and Harry blinked and looked up to smile at him. It wasn't a nice thing to do, to distract Harry from struggling to remember Grace, but John wasn't a nice man. This was all the time he had left with Finch and he wanted it all for himself. 

 

They’d ended up sprawled on the couch, full of spaghetti and a couple of bottles of red wine, relishing the simple pleasures in life, Bear curled up on the rug with both cats asleep on his back. 

“I can’t believe how friendly Bear is. He’s a Belgian Malinois isn’t he?”’

John nodded. 

“Given his breed, I thought he’d be more standoffish.”

John rolled his head slowly sideways to smile at Harry. “Bear knows good people when he meets them.”

“And so do I, John, so do I.”

And then Harry went and ruined it all by kissing him. 

And John went and ruined it all by kissing Finch back. 

_Finch._ John brought up his hands to ease Harry back as he slowly broke the kiss. 

“John?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t.” If Finch ever woke up and remembered Grace he'd never forgive John for his betrayal.

“Why? I thought we were—”

“Friends, Harry, I’d like us to be friends.” 

Harry wasn’t the only one with someone he couldn’t quite forget.

 

What had been one of the best days he could remember having had turned awkward after he'd rejected Harry and he’d said goodbye soon after, ignoring Bear’s wounded looks at having his pack taken apart again. 

Knowing he’d done the right thing had been no comfort at all but at least he'd known where he could work off some of his frustration. 

 

"Who are you?" Kenneth McPherson sobbed, as John dangled him off his Manhattan penthouse apartment's balcony, head first.

"A concerned citizen." He lowered McPherson a little farther, enjoying the resulting burn in his muscles. 

"For god's sake, pull me up." The handcuffs on McPherson's wrists were going to leave some bad scratches on his glass balcony wall as he scrabbled ineffectually against it. 

John considered just dropping McPherson, problem solved, only the thought of Finch's disappointment stopping him. He reluctantly pulled McPherson back up on to the balcony, dumping him on the floor. 

"Leave the tenants alone or I'll come back and finish the job."

"I have connections, you can't just—"

"I can. Without HR your police buddies don't amount to much anymore."

"You're him, the man in the suit." McPherson tried crawling away, his terror clear.

"Don't make me come back." He left McPherson on the balcony. 

 

John lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling. It was far too late to realize he was in love with Harold Finch and probably had been for months before Finch had died. He was mourning Finch all over again, which was stupid given that he was still alive. 

John turned over on his side. 

He could be happy and content with Harry, knew he could, knew they'd make a good life together in that cozy little apartment. 

Only he would be playing house, unable to ever tell Harry anything about his real life, pretending to be the thoroughly good man Harry obviously believed him to be. 

How would Harry deal with knowing John had tortured and executed people without qualm, operating only on unquestioned orders? 

He punched his pillow in to shape. 

For that matter, how would Harry handle it the next time John got shot, he was sure there would be a next time, when he’d been so upset by John’s black eye? 

He pulled the sheets up higher, smoothing them out with his hands.

Why couldn’t he play house with Harry? He could give up the numbers, who was to say he couldn’t? He could make Harry happy, he loved— Finch, not Harry. Finch had known everything about him and had still been his friend. He’d have never had to lie to Finch for them to be together. 

Perhaps, if he’d spoken then— He could get Finch back. 

He threw the sheets back and swung his legs over to sit up on the side of the bed. 

The psychiatrists hadn’t been able to help Harry because they’d been unwittingly trying to help him remember an apocryphal life. He knew Finch, knew if he persisted along with Shaw and Fusco and got Harry the right help he could bring Finch back. 

Only bringing Finch back because he loved him didn’t mean Finch would return his feelings, even if Harry had been interested in him sexually. Finch still loved Grace, still remembered his feelings for her even when he couldn’t remember her name. 

He lay back down. No, to bring Finch back meant nothing but more guilt and loneliness for Finch. Harry was happy with his life and John wanted that for Finch more than anything. 

He just wouldn’t see him again, wouldn’t risk Finch’s happiness by risking waking him up.


	5. Chapter 5

John had kept his word in the intervening five months, two weeks, five days and — he glanced at his watch blinking the blood out of his eyes – three hours. He'd gone to the extreme of avoiding the Village completely as much as was humanly possible. So he’d checked out the bookstore’s website a few times, read with interest about new purchases and scheduled readings, he was only human, but that was it. He’d kept his distance. 

Until tonight. He was dying, Hendrickson’s poison eating slowly through his veins and all he wanted was to see Finch one last time. It didn’t seem like much to ask. 

He pressed his face up against the corner of the bookstore's window, where he knew he'd be obscured by the window display and saw Harry back behind the counter, laughing over something with Sylvie. John was content. This was how it should end. 

He walked in to the alley between the bookstore and the sandwich shop to get off the street while he left Shaw a phone message to confirm it was Hendrickson and to tell her to look after Bear. 

He flipped back the lid on a dumpster, thought about climbing inside where none of Hendrickson’s people could find him so at least he wouldn’t be another test subject for them, but then thought better of it. What if Harry found him in there? Better that Harry went on thinking John was a bastard who hadn’t meant the first word he’d said about being friends.

John stumbled, clutching hold of the edge of the dumpster to steady himself. He had to get out of the alley and flag down a cab while he still could. 

He'd go to the bench near the bridge where he’d first met Finch. Not a bad place to end it. Yeah, he’d go there. 

He staggered, sweating despite the cold night, the walk back down the alley getting longer as he looked. 

He was falling, everything happening in slow motion, as the darkness ended with light spilling from an opened door.

“John, god, what happened to you?” 

_Sylvie._. All he could see were her Doc Martens but he recognized her voice as she bent down towards him. 

“Harry, Harry come quick!”

 

John woke up in an all too familiar hospital bed in an all too familiar safe house. He felt like he'd been beaten repeatedly with a lump of concrete and when he turned his head slightly on the pillow the nausea was overwhelming. There were six drips feeding in to his arm, a personal record, not that it was something to be bragging about. 

“Awake at last.” 

He looked down at the foot of the bed where Root was standing. 

“I’m disappointed, John, that you would keep Harold from us. Not angry like Shaw and Fusco are, but disappointed nonetheless.” She came to sit on the edge of his bed. “At least I was upset with you until She explained it to me, why you did it. I'll admit that emotions are difficult for me to understand.”

“Then—”

“Yes, John, Harold is back with us. The shock of finding you half-dead on his doorstep and not knowing what to do about it brought him back to himself, to the need to use his resources to save your sorry life.” She lightly patted his face, making his skin crawl. “Harold has always been kind to animals.” 

 

Root left and he slept between visits from Shaw, Fusco and Dr. Tillman. He’d expected Shaw and Fusco to be angry with him and had been dumbfounded at receiving something closer to sympathy, at least as close as Shaw could manage. When he’d try to bring it up with Shaw she’d muttered about Reese being a helpless romantic and then she’d left quickly. 

The person most noticeable by his absence was Finch. 

 

It took two days for John to be steady enough on his feet again for Dr. Tillman to let him out of bed and for Fusco to no longer be capable of making him stay there. John had always been of the school of thought that it was better to rip the Band-Aid off fast and so went straight to the library. Finch wasn’t there. 

Root was, and was all too happy to give him Finch’s message that he was to take the weekend off. The rest of them would handle anything that came up. 

 

His next stop was Killdeer Books.

"John, how are you?" Sylvie came around the counter and much to his surprise hugged him hard before letting go. "You looked so terrible in the alley. I had no idea security work was that dangerous."

"Thanks for your help. Sylvie." He looked around the bookstore. "Is Harry here? I'd like to speak to him."

Sylvie couldn't quite meet his eyes. "I'm sorry, but he's gone, John. He said seeing you in that condition made him realize how short life is. He's decided to go and see the world rather than just read about it. He did leave his cell phone number for you." She went back behind the counter to dig a card out of a drawer. "He's made me a partner in the business and I'm moving in to the upstairs apartment so I can look after the cats." She handed over the card. "I hope you'll still stop by when you're in the Village."

 

He was standing outside the bookstore, trying to decide whether to call the number he was sure Finch had left more for Sylvie's benefit than for John's, when his phone rang.

“You went to the bookstore? You're supposed to be resting.” Finch sounded annoyed.

“And a good morning to you too, Finch. I think we need to talk.”

“I’ll meet you at the safe house.”

"I could have just stayed there in the first place if you'd—" Finch had already hung up on him. 

 

“You've cut your hair!” It wasn’t what he’d imagined his first words to Finch would be. 

Harold was fully Finch again. While he wasn’t wearing his usual suit and vest, his shirt and dress pants probably cost more than Harry’s entire apartment had, his eyes were hidden again behind heavy glasses frames and his hair was back to its full Tintin-esque glory. At least John wouldn’t have to control the impulse to push the hair back out of Harry’s face anymore. 

Finch gestured to the couch and waited until John had taken a seat but remained standing himself. 

“I just want to know why, Mr. Reese.” 

Finch stared a hole through him while John considered all possible answers. In the end, he decided on a modified truth. Hell, he hadn’t ever promised Finch he'd never lie to him. 

“As Harry, you were finally happy. I thought you’d earned that.”

“And you felt that was your decision to make?”

“I couldn’t ask you for your opinion.” 

“At first I was angry, when I realized what you’d done or rather not done, but the more I thought about it, the more I suspected your motives were probably noble, if completely mistaken.” 

Finch retrieved a large envelope from the table, dropping it in to John’s lap. 

“What’s this?”

“A new identity and enough money to go anywhere you wish with it. You’re free, Mr. Reese. Goodbye.” 

Finch turned and walked away. John threw the unopened envelope on to the couch and got up, following Finch in to the kitchen where he'd started making tea. 

“Are you firing me? Because you can’t do that.”

“I can’t make decisions about your life? But I'm just following your fine example.”

John slammed his hands down on the kitchen counter. “It’s not the same thing at all and you know it. I’d still know who I am, what I’ve done. I can never be free of the guilt and you were."

"Ridiculous."

"The Machine agreed with me. It covered your tracks.”

Finch turned to stare at him in obvious shock before pulling himself back together. "But I knew I’d lost someone, someone that meant everything to me and I couldn’t remember who. Do you have any idea what it’s like to live your life looking for a ghost?”

“When I thought you were dead—”

“It’s not the same thing.”

But it was the same thing. The exact same thing, but John couldn’t say it. Now he had Finch back they were further apart than they'd even been. So Finch wanted him gone. Fuck that. 

He snagged Finch's wrist, pulling him firmly up against himself. 

"Mr. Reese, what are you doing?”

John kissed him. Harold didn't fight him but didn't kiss back either. John softened his mouth, dropping his hands to loosely encircle Harold's lower back, licking at his mouth, pleading his case without words. 

As Harold's hands rose up his chest John expected to be rebuffed but Harold curled them into his jacket lapels, gripping them tightly and holding on as he pushed John backwards in to the wall. He spread his legs and slid down a little and Harold leaned in to him, devouring him, groaning as their hips rocked together. 

He grimaced as Harold pushed again, pulling fabric taut over John's balls, before he slid even further down easing the grind of cock against cock. Harold pulled back briefly to suck at his lip, bleeding slightly where John's teeth had mashed against it, then he leaned in again to suck too hard on John's tongue, making his hips jerk. Harold's fingernails dug deeply in to John's back, working for leverage despite his limited range of motion and John's thigh muscles burned from bracing both of them. It was awkward and uncomfortable and John didn't care if he never had 'perfect' again, he just didn't want it to stop.

But it had to. With his hands on Harold's ass, he could feel the trembling of overworked muscles. He eased him back, despite his semi-coherent protests and opened his fly. Harold was ever a fast study, his clever hands following suit in freeing John from his pants. He licked his hand, wrapping it around both their cocks and Harold mirrored him, leaning heavily in to him again as John supported their combined weight. Fingers locked together, kisses turned to little more than shared air, his orgasm roared through him as Harold gasped his name.

As his legs failed him, he controlled their drop to the floor, cradling Harold against him as he brought him off and then slowly licked his hand clean, making a show of it. Harold took the bait, pulling him down in to another heated kiss. 

 

"So, it's settled, Harold. I'm not going anywhere."

Harold pulled back. "No, I suppose you're not." 

Harold climbed awkwardly to his knees, hesitating before taking the hand John offered to help him stand. 

"If you don't mind, I'll shower first." Harold tucked himself back in to his pants and stared down at his disheveled clothes. "Lucky we keep spare clothes here, these pants are probably ruined." He walked slowly off towards the bathroom. 

Harold didn't look at him once. 

 

When John emerged from his turn in the bathroom he wasn't surprised that Harold had left, leaving a note that he was needed at the library. It was just Harold being Harold and needing time to process what had changed between them.


	6. Chapter 6

But nothing had changed between them. He'd tried to kiss Harold when he got to the library but Harold had bent to pet Bear and the moment had past. The moment continued to pass. The thing that had kept John alive so long despite the odds was his ability to read people and he'd made a very detailed study of the language of Finch. Harold have obviously been off-kilter else he'd have never had anything to do with John, but he was too kind to say it. 

To all intents and purposes their relationship, and didn't that word seem ridiculous now, reverted to how it had been before Finch had lost his memory, months before he'd lost his memory. John got the message, keeping his distance and avoiding even the casual touches that had long been part of their partnership. Gradually, Finch relaxed around him but there was still an edge of frost there.

 

Their uneasy détente lasted for three months, right up until James Sullivan died. No matter how good an agent John had been, and he liked to think he'd been one of the CIA's best, he couldn't be in two places at once. In the Mitchell brothers' warehouse his only choice had been who to shoot first. Robert Mitchell, who'd been holding a gun to Sullivan's head or Brian Mitchell who'd been holding a gun to Finch's head. It had been no choice at all. Finch had lived to see Sullivan collapse to the ground, his face blown off by a bullet from Robert Mitchell's gun. 

 

John didn't see Finch for two days after the warehouse and he didn't attempt to look for him. Sullivan was only twenty-two, a college senior with a clean record who'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time but though John tried, he couldn't even fake regret about his decision. When Finch texted him an address and a seven digit code, he expected to see the envelope from the safe house again. 

The address was a midtown underground parking lot, the code opened its security gate and Finch was waiting for him at the elevator bank. 

They rode the elevator up twenty floors in silence, emerging on to a quiet hallway in an office building. At the end of the corridor was a door marked 'Nightingale Insurance.' Behind the door was a generically furnished office with a few poorly rendered art prints on the wall and a sad looking fichus in the corner. Finch crossed to the office's closet and punched a code in its security panel. The closet held office supplies, give-away calendars courtesy of 'Nightingale Insurance' and a small safe, explaining the security panel on the door. Finch pulled a bunch of keys out of his pocket and hit a button on a Ford key fob. The wall at the back of the closet slid noiselessly sideways revealing a panic room. John followed him in, the door closing behind them. Finch opened the door of the control panel and then pushed it down to reveal a fingerprint scanner. After placing his hand on it, the back wall of the panic room slid open. Beyond another short hallway and another security door was a large apartment. It looked like it might really be Finch's home, a perfect combination of Harry’s homey apartment and Finch’s high end tastes, antiques blending with comfortable furniture and a couch that could have been the twin of Harry’s, if it had been more threadbare, most of the walls lined with books.

John crossed the room to stare out of the large windows — bullet proof one-way glass — admiring the view. Something was off... The view was all wrong. They were in the next building over from the one they'd been in.

 

Finch slumped down on to the couch and John crossed the room to sit on the edge of it next to him. 

"I know you think I handled it wrongly." 

Harold looked at him with so much sadness in his eyes that John reached out to pull him in to his arms and kiss him. 

Finch froze before stiffly pushing him away. "There's no need for that, Mr. Reese. I promise I won't try to fire you again."

"What?" Harold actually thought— "I kissed you at the safe house because you were firing me—"

"I know, I've read your files. You're... flexible when needed."

"Because I thought I'd never get the chance again, not to stop you from firing me."

"But you turned Harry down when he kissed you."

Finch still didn't understand. "It's not Harry that I wanted." He could try to tell Finch how he felt, how he'd felt in those long cold weeks when he'd thought Harold was dead but he'd always been better with actions than with words. 

He kissed Harold again, moving to straddle him so he wouldn't strain his neck, tracing his jaw line with fingers and lips. He bit lightly at the soft skin below Harold's ear, delighting in his small gasp, even happier as Harold's hands caressed his face, moving John back up so he could control the kiss. 

Harold licked lazily at his lips, nibbling slightly before biting down gently on the lower one, pulling. It was John's turn to gasp and Harold's gentle kiss turned open-mouthed and needy, his hips rocking up slightly into John's.

He broke the kiss, slithering down Harold's body until he was kneeling on the floor between his legs. His hands were shaking slightly as he reached for Harold's zipper but as Harold moved to unbuckle his own belt they steadied. 

Harold's cock was a solid weight on his tongue, a drop of bitter fluid making John salivate as his lips stretched wide to take it in, licking at the head then sucking hard, working at taking as much of it in as he could, his hands fondling Harold's thighs and balls. He wanted Harold, all of him and as Harold's fingers lightly caressed his head, carding through John's short hair, he breathed deep and worked Harold further in, swallowing around him, saliva dripping from his chin. Harold tried to warn him, his hands pulling at John's head, but he just swallowed again and again.

 

Boneless, he let Harold guide him back up on to the couch and kissed him, letting him taste himself in John's mouth. 

"Can I..." Harold reached for John, his fingers skimming the dampness at John's crotch as he smiled up at him. 

"Later, Harold." 

"I'll hold you to that, John." 

 

They lay there for a while, dosing in each other's arms, before Harold started stirring and John moved to allow him to get to his feet. 

"I think a shower's in order." 

Was Harold going to leave again?

"It's big enough for two." Harold put out his hand and John took it. 

 

They sat at Harold's kitchen table, eating Dagwood sandwiches constructed from ingredients they'd foraged from the fridge and pantry and drinking beer, finding any excuse to touch each other, John's hand travelling over Harold's back as he poured him another beer, Harold kissing an imaginary crumb from the corner of John's mouth.

The shower had taken awhile, exploratory kisses and mapping hands diverting them from soap and shampoo as they'd learned more about each other's bodies. John took another big bite of his sandwich as he remembered Harold's reaction when he'd scraped his nails across Harold's chest. 

Harold had donned sweats when they'd dried off after the shower and John had been touched that there was a drawer full of clothes in his size. He'd only pulled on clean boxers and a t-shirt, hoping that Harold would take the hint and let him stay the night at least. 

He did. "It's later, John." Harold led the way to his bedroom. 

 

He woke up before dawn, slightly disoriented until Harold spoke.

"Go back to sleep, John, I just need to use the bathroom." 

He rolled on to his back, stretching, smiling as he remembered how talented Harold had been with his mouth and hands. 

When Harold returned, he went to use the head himself, thinking as they were both awake more sex might be in the offing. It had been a long time for him, even longer since he'd cared deeply about his partner. 

Harold looked pained as he stared at his phone in the low light from the bedside lamp. 

"A new number?"

"Mitchell's hearing. I can't stop thinking it could have turned out differently—"

"No, it couldn't." It couldn't have because he loved Harold. He clambered back on to the bed, taking the phone from Harold and putting it on the bedside table. "I would shoot Brian Mitchell first every time."

He expected Harold to be horrified by his confession. Instead, Harold pulled him closer and kissed him briefly, his hand lingering on John's face. 

"I know, John. If the situation had been reversed, I'd have made the same choice. I asked you here to tell you that."

As far as declarations went it wasn't everything John wanted but it was far more than he'd ever expected to get. 

He gently pulled Harold down flat on to the bed, climbed over him to kiss him and reached blindly for Harold's bedside table drawer but he only found lube there. 

"Don't move." John went hunting for his wallet, found it on top of the chest of drawers and returned with a couple of condoms. 

Harold was slowly turning on to his good side, pulling more pillows under his neck. 

"I said not to move." He eased Harold over on to his back again.

"But I thought you wanted to—"

John kissed him. "I do and I will but unless you can't" He lightly touched Harold's bad hip "or just don't like to, right now I want you to fuck me."

He took Harold scrabbling to find the lube as a yes.

Once decided on a course of action — condom _check_ lube _check_ ride Harold until he lost his mind _check_ — John wasn't long on patience but as he started to tear open the foil, Harold took the condom out of his hand, slowing him with deep lingering kisses, coaxing him in to lying down. 

Slow caresses to his thighs and nibbling licks to the tender skin where his leg met his hip, nerve endings lighting up from stinging bites to his collarbone, shuddering at blunt fingernails drawn firmly across his chest and down his sides, Harold sucking him off almost to the point of orgasm... and then nudging him over on to his stomach and starting all over again on his back, tracing all the vertebrae of his spine, licking at the back of his knees, biting his ass, using his tongue and fingers until John was pressing back against him, begging wordlessly. This was nothing like the night before, this wasn't playful, this was Harold leaving him with no place to hide. Harold's hands holding him open, Harold's thick cock pressing in to him in one long, slow burn, Harold's chest pressed against his back, Harold's hand stripping his cock, Harold's pleasure in John's body breathed against his neck, Harold, _Harold_ , _Harold_... 

And John wasn't scared anymore, the truth tumbling out of him as Harold took him apart and put him back together again. 

 

Lying with his head on Harold's chest, Harold's hand running softly through his hair brought more contentment than he felt he'd ever deserved. 

"John..."

He turned his head slightly so he could see Harold's face.

"...I'm not good at this."

He smirked at Harold who smirked back, shaking his head. "Not what I meant." 

John moved up on to an elbow and waited. 

"When Harry told you he remembered that before the accident there was someone very important to him—"

"Grace." Harold was going to break it to him that he was still in love with her and John was going to be OK with it if it killed him. 

"No, I remembered Grace, not the details exactly but with a deep affection. It was you. I was remembering how I felt about you. Harry's doctor said his amnesia might be prolonged by subconsciously not wanting to remember everything."

Why would Harold want to remember falling for someone like him?

"John." Harold said his name softly, caressing his face. 

Obviously his stoicism wasn't what it had been before Harold had fucked it out of him.

"I'd only realized how I really felt about you a couple of days before my accident. I tried to tell you that night, but the contortionist had caught your— eye and I drove away thinking it impossible that you'd ever return my feelings." 

"And now?"

Harold smiled up at him, pulling John back down. "It doesn't seem impossible at all."

John could work with that.


End file.
